The Coroner's Daughter

by Andrew Hughes

  At first, Darby wouldn’t take it, so the usher put it on the table before him. Darby looked down, placed one hand on the page then smoothed a dog-eared corner with his index finger. He picked up the letter. It wasn’t long, but his eyes remained on the text for some time. His brow slanted and creased for just a moment, but then he became impassive once more. He turned it over to look at the blank reverse, then folded it, running the crease between his thumb and index finger.

  Father asked for the letter to be handed to the jury members. The foreman, Mr Heeney, was the first to read it. After a moment, his neighbour impatiently reached over to take it, but Heeney turned his shoulder and flashed the man a dark look. Eventually, each juror had seen Edith’s polite but firm refusal.

  Father said, ‘Where were you on the night Miss Gould died?’

  ‘I never saw that letter.’

  ‘Did you hear me?’

  ‘She never gave any indication . . .’

  ‘Mr Darby, would you like to have legal counsel before we continue? We can postpone this hearing until that is arranged,’ Father said.

  ‘That won’t be required.’

  ‘Then where were you?’

  ‘I visited a member of the Brethren on Glasnevin Hill. I was there for much of the evening before returning to Rutland Square on horseback. It was late. The weather was so bad that night, the roads were treacherous.’

  ‘Did you speak to anyone when you arrived?’

  ‘My sister-in-law, Mrs Nesham.’

  ‘No one else?’

  ‘I asked a maid to ensure my clothes were dried.’

  ‘They were soaked through?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  Father pointed at the coat Mr Darby was wearing, with the black fabric and metal hooks. ‘You were wearing the coat you have on at present?’

  He shook his head. ‘We only wear these coats when we gather.’

  ‘Such as here today.’ Father glanced at the Brethren who had advanced up the hall in order to better hear the proceedings. He rummaged in his pocket and lifted out the hook that was found with Edith, holding it up for the jury to see, the loose threads trailing.

  ‘Miss Gould was clutching this in her right hand when she was found in the reservoir, most likely snatched from the coat of her attacker.’

  Darby peered at the hook. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Mr Darby, may the jury examine your coat to ensure that no clasps are missing or re-attached.’

  Darby looked down at his own coat, as if someone had pointed out a stain. He began to undo the hooks, starting at the bottom and working his way up. There were six in all. He stood up, removed his coat and handed it to the usher, then remained standing in his white shirtsleeves and black waistcoat, defrocked and uncertain.

  The jury members examined it, tugging at each of the hooks in turn. Mr Heeney said, ‘They appear to be present and accounted for.’

  Father told them that there was a gentleman who might be able to assist, and he called upon Mr Whistler. The tailor was sitting in the middle of a row, and there was much shifting of chairs and shuffling of feet to allow him out. Whistler smoothed his long silver hair over his brow, and marched directly to the table. He picked up the coat by the shoulders and held it at arm’s length. After only a second, he curled his finger through one of the hooks and allowed the rest of the coat to fall, tails and arms sagging towards the floor.

  ‘I didn’t sew this,’ he said.

  Father said, ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I’m sure you can tell your own stitches as well, Mr Coroner.’

  Father asked if Whistler might elaborate for the jury.

  ‘I’ve cut dozens of coats for the Brethren, and the hooks are attached by tabs of fabric with twelve stiches each, no more, no less.’ He examined the hook on Mr Darby’s coat again. ‘Though this is a relatively neat job, it has only ten. It was done recently as well, no fraying in the thread.’ He laid the coat on the table once more, and invited Mr Heeney to look. Whistler walked past Darby without glancing at him, and took the torn hook from Father’s side of the table. ‘This one was mine,’ he said, frowning at the loose threads for a moment. ‘She must have been in quite a state to pull it off in one go.’

  Darby had been looking at these proceedings with growing confusion. My father said to him, ‘Mr Darby, despite your earlier protestations, I must recommend that you hire legal counsel before we continue. I should warn you that the constables present intend to escort you to the nearest magistrate’s office, where you’ll be charged with the murder of Edith Gould.’ Several members of the Brethren cried out, ‘No,’ as the policemen in the front row stood up. The crowd began to talk as well, but instead of calling for quiet, Father spoke over them. ‘This inquest is adjourned until tomorrow morning. All jury members and witnesses are still under summons.’

  The constables advanced on Darby. He still stood in his shirtsleeves, and they took hold of his forearms and shoulders.

  Many people in the front had stood up to see the arrest, and the Brethren had moved further forward, almost to the edge of the dais. Robert Gould pushed his way to the central aisle, and began walking towards the front. He seemed focused and unhurried. The top buttons of his coat were open. He reached under his lapel and drew out a pistol.

  Darby was the first to notice his approach, but with his arms pinioned he couldn’t point or move. When he began to shout, the police just held him tighter. Robert held the gun straight in front of him for the last few steps. It fired with a flash and a loud bang.

  Perhaps all the commotion had been enough to put Robert off, for the bullet only nicked the ear of Mr Darby before smashing through one of the stained-glass windows behind him. The constables released their hold. They jumped on Robert and tried to wrest the gun from his hands. Darby clutched the side of his head and fell backwards. Several women screamed out, and some of the jurymen crouched beneath the table. The Brethren swarmed on to the dais, overturning the witness chairs. I feared that they would attack my father, but their only concern was for Mr Darby. They surrounded him, gathered him to his feet and moved towards the front door in a huddle, his white shirt visible in flashes among their black coats. The constables had Robert subdued, though one was still struggling to prise his whitened fingers from the pistol. The dais was in disarray. Father’s notes were scattered about and Edith’s dress had been trampled on the ground. The Brethren reached the entrance and pushed the doors open. Sunlight and a cold draught entered the hall as they spirited Darby into one of their carriages, and he was away in a clatter of hooves.

  13

  We were gathered in the parlour in the hour before supper. Father sat by the fire reading his newspaper. Kepler lay on the windowsill, watching the evening rain with a mild air of displeasure. At a table in the corner, Ewan was teaching Jimmy the rules of vingt-et-un, with moderate success. Jimmy had accompanied his mother to the markets often enough to develop a good head for figures. He was only let down by a reckless optimism when asking for more cards, refusing to let a hand stand at anything less than nineteen. The latest round ended with another of his groans.

  The logs in the hearth shifted, and a few sparks escaped up the flue like spirits. Father said, ‘Did you see this?’ He looked at me over the corner of his newspaper. ‘Mr Darby has been spotted again.’

  ‘Where now?’

  ‘Down at the docks, boarding the post packet to Holyhead.’ He took a sip from a glass of sherry. ‘Probably just another stern-looking gentleman in a dark coat.’

  In the days following the inquest, there had been several sightings of Mr Darby. A lady patron of Smock Alley had sworn that he was in one of the boxes during a production of A New Way to Pay Old Debts. Some said that he was briefly unmasked at Lady Ogilvie’s annual masquerade; others that he was smoking a pipe in the clothes of a vagrant beneath Whitworth Bridge, in full view of the law courts.

  Even his followers claimed not to know of his whereabouts. The homes of the most prominent Brethren
were searched, including, of course, the Neshams’. From my mother’s old room, I’d watched the constables enter the house across the square. Light from police lanterns had shifted about in every window, and I imagined them going from room to room, peeking under tablecloths and shaking all the drapes.

  ‘If Darby escapes overseas,’ I said, ‘then he may never be found.’

  ‘The police will catch up with him eventually.’

  Father had paid little heed to the reports. As far as he was concerned his duties as coroner were fulfilled. He knew of no precedent for an inquest to be ended by gunfire, but it had not altered the verdict. Edith’s body was returned to her parents, and she was buried soon after in a cemetery close to Coburg Gardens. Only her closest friends and family attended – though not her brother, whose bail hearing hadn’t come in time. He had since been released under the recognizance of his father.

  ‘Are you not anxious that Mr Darby will evade justice?’

  ‘Of course I hope he stands trial. But I cannot take a personal interest in every death and every inquest. My work would never be done.’

  ‘Would you not do so for Edith and her family?’

  ‘I have great sympathy for Edith, and for the plight of her parents.’

  ‘And what of Robert?’

  Father looked at me a moment longer. ‘For Mr Gould as well. Though if he had not taken matters into his own hands, Mr Darby would now be in custody.’ He opened his newspaper again and resumed reading.

  In the corner, Jimmy lost another round of twenty-one and threw in his hand. I put down my book and went to observe. Perhaps Jimmy kept asking for more cards because there was nothing at stake. ‘Something will have to be wagered,’ I said.

  Ewan began to shuffle. ‘How about this? If I win the next hand, Jimmy must polish my riding boots before next Sunday, and if he wins, I’ll buy him a cream cake from Mrs Benson’s.’

  ‘If Jimmy has to clean two boots then you should have to buy two cakes.’

  Ewan narrowed his eyes and smiled. ‘Very well.’

  He dealt the cards. Jimmy received a nine and a three. Ewan kept one of his cards hidden; the other was the ace of clubs. He said, ‘I must say, I’m pleased with that.’

  Jimmy had no choice but to ask for another, and received a five.

  ‘Now,’ Ewan said, ‘seventeen is a fine score. I’d advise you to stand.’

  Jimmy regarded the cards with his head in his hands, hair spiking through fingers like tufts of grass. He looked up at me. ‘What do you think, Abby?’

  ‘I think Mr Weir may be right.’

  ‘Of course I’m right. It’s far too risky.’

  He placed the deck on the table. There was a slight crease in the corner of the topmost card, barely visible in the paisley pattern. Not long ago, Kepler had nudged the cards over the edge of the cabinet. They had tumbled on to the floorboards, and one of them became dog-eared – but only one.

  ‘Wait, Jimmy,’ I said, placing my hand on his shoulder before he made his decision. ‘Mr Weir is in a very strong position with his ace. In order to win, you may have to take a chance. Sometimes fortune favours the brave.’

  He puffed his cheeks and nodded, then asked for another.

  ‘On your head be it,’ said Ewan, and he turned over the four of diamonds.

  Jimmy let out a whoop, which made Father frown over the top of his paper. Ewan could still have drawn level, but his hidden card was an eight, and chasing twenty-one he ruined his hand with the queen of spades. He accepted defeat with good grace, and the game was broken up when Mrs Perrin came in asking her son to prepare the table for supper. Jimmy let her know that he had just won two cream cakes, and that he intended to give her half of one. Before he left, I stopped him by the door and said, ‘Jimmy, I may need your help with a task tomorrow. At around midday.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, more amenable than ever.

  When I returned to the table, Ewan asked if I wanted to continue playing. ‘Or some other game if you prefer.’

  The only other card games I knew were Matrimony and Old Maid, and I wasn’t inclined to suggest either. ‘Vingt-et-un will be fine,’ I said, and I held my hand towards him. ‘I’ll deal.’

  The bells of St Stephen’s were chiming just as the cabman reached Fitzwilliam Square. Jimmy and I got out at the corner of the enclosed garden. We could see the Goulds’ house further along the terrace, where members of the Brethren had gathered outside. There weren’t many: four men and three women with their dark cloaks gathered against the breeze. They didn’t move or speak, just gazed at number five in silent vigil. The front door was closed, as were most of the shutters in the windows, as if the house had been abandoned.

  Jimmy said, ‘What are they doing?’

  ‘I don’t know, but we weren’t going that way in any case. Come along.’

  We walked around to the stable lane that ran behind the terrace. The paving stones and flat road surface gave way to muddy tracks, puddles and potholes. The narrow lane was bounded by high walls and mews buildings, and was busy with the servants of the townhouses: housekeepers with wicker baskets and coachmen in their livery. I counted the gates until we reached the home of the Goulds. Somewhere past the stables and the long back garden would be the servants’ entrance to the house.

  I turned to Jimmy. ‘You know who to ask for?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And you know what to say?’

  He tutted. ‘Yes, Abby.’

  ‘Off you go then. I’ll be waiting here.’

  He pulled his cap further over his brow, went through the gates, and returned a few minutes later with Miss Croft in tow. She paused when she saw me, but still stepped into the lane. I told Jimmy to wait at the corner and he hurried off. It looked as if Miss Croft had been disturbed mid-chore. Her cheeks were daubed with soot, and the sleeves of her dress were pulled up.

  She was the first to speak, her eyes dark and sullen. ‘Mr Gould is in discussion with his father, miss, and won’t see any visitors.’

  ‘I have not come to speak with Mr Gould. Why are there Brethren at the front of the house?’

  ‘They’ve been here ever since his release. I don’t know why. Perhaps you should ask them.’

  ‘Perhaps I will.’

  Miss Croft crossed her arms by holding both elbows, and she shivered slightly in the cold. ‘I’ll soon have to return to work.’

  ‘I was at the inquest,’ I said. ‘I heard the evidence you gave.’

  Her eyes narrowed. Father had told her at the time that there would be consequences for lying under oath. Perhaps she thought I’d come bearing some form of summons or censure.

  ‘There’s something I have been wondering about. You knew that Edith left the house willingly that night, you saw her into the carriage. But she could not have been intending to see Mr Darby, for she had already rejected him.’

  A strand of hair came loose from the maid’s cap, and she turned her face so it would blow behind her ear. She remained silent.

  I remembered again Lord Charlemont’s ball, spying Edith in a dim hallway on a chessboard marble floor, and the whispered intimacy of her conversation with the son of the house.

  I waited for the maid to look at me again. ‘She thought she was going to meet James Caulfeild.’

  Her impassive face wavered for a second, and she looked over her shoulder towards the Goulds’ coach house as if to check that no one could overhear.

  I said, ‘Was she willing to risk everything just to elope?’

  ‘She was trapped here,’ the maid said. ‘She knew that her parents would make her marry Mr Darby.’

  ‘But she was deceived that night. She never reached James.’

  ‘Mr Darby must have found out.’

  ‘Who arranged for the carriage?’

  ‘I don’t know. She just said that it would be there at midnight.’

  ‘Then she must have received word. A letter or a note.’

  ‘Miss Edith received correspondence all the ti
me. There were always notes in the letter box.’

  ‘Has her room been cleared?’

  ‘No. Mrs Gould has asked for everything to be left as it was. She can’t bring herself to go through her things.’

  ‘Then the note might still be there. We could look for it.’

  Miss Croft frowned and shook her head. ‘No, miss.’

  ‘Mr Darby could not have acted alone. The driver of the carriage was helping him, and could still be hiding him now.’

  She looked at the ground, rubbed her forearms for a few seconds, and then looked at me directly. ‘If Darby is found, could it be of any help to Robert?’

  ‘Robert?’

  ‘The authorities are angry because he allowed Darby to escape. If that’s righted, perhaps Robert may face a more lenient judge.’

  She held my eye, as if daring me to ask why that would be of more concern than the injustice to Edith. I said, ‘I am certain that would be the case.’

  She stayed still a moment longer, then turned and began walking towards the house. I hesitated, but when I followed after she said nothing to stop me. The windows on this side of the house were unshuttered, but as far as I could tell no one was watching. Miss Croft pushed open a door, peeked inside, and then brought me into a dim corridor next to the basement kitchen.

  She whispered that I must remain quiet, and we began to ascend the stairs. The house felt deserted. No candles were lit, and doors stood open to cold empty rooms. On the third floor, there was a small hallway with two doors, one on either side. Miss Croft paused once more to listen. She glanced over her shoulder, and then brought me into Edith’s chamber.

  The room was darkened by closed shutters. It felt as if the fire hadn’t been lit for days, and there was a hint of dampness in the air. Edith’s bed was made, though the white sheets were slightly furrowed. Perhaps people had been sitting there. A dressing table between the two windows had its oval mirror covered in a green baize sheet. Some families believed that the soul in reflection could be taken away by the spirit of the dead -not a superstition that I would have associated with the Brethren. Maybe Miss Croft had put it there, or the housekeeper. Or perhaps it was simply to protect the glass from dust.